


Rapture of the Light

by Varjo



Series: Timeline [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dagon was Rahab before she fell, Discorporation (Good Omens), F/F, Glorious Revolution, One Shot, Pining, War, but a long one, but not of any canon character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26124721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Varjo/pseuds/Varjo
Summary: As the alarms sound and heavenly peace is broken for the first time, Archangel Uriel finds two things: one, her destiny in fighting to keep Heaven immaculate; two, her uncannily tender feelings for her commander.Though Michael must never know. She would never accept this.Or will she?This is actually more a part 1.5 of my timeline since it covers part of the same ground as part 1, just through a different set of eyes.
Relationships: Michael/Uriel (Good Omens)
Series: Timeline [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1842865
Kudos: 3





	Rapture of the Light

Uriel and Michael were together as the alarm sounded from inside the city.

Uriel felt her commander’s aura darken, saw her narrow her eyes and bow her head as if accepting defeat – resigned, hopeless. “Lucifer…” she murmured, consumed with discomfort.

The deputy wanted to raise her hand, just say a single word to appease her, but her commander proved to be faster, rising and unsheathing her flaming sword. Within just one moment and one movement, Michael, who had been close enough so Uriel could feel her exhalation, had moved leagues away. Now was no time or space for togetherness, calm, gentleness. Now was the time for relentlessness, fury and bared steel – for bringing about justice and righteousness.

“Call to arms who you can, Uriel, and lead them into town. I will be expecting you there.”

Michael’s gloomy, darkly horrified mood had turned to rage as Uriel arrived, her own weapon well brandished, at the lead of a quickly assembled unit. The angels following her were partly determined, partly frightened, partly completely lost and perplexed. Some were afraid, some reserved and drawn-back, some seemed to seethe with anger. Screams rang out, flames spilled out of the buildings the angels had worked so hard to put up, debris and ashes contaminated the scenery, and above everything Lucifer had inflated to multiple times his usual height, a sight of particular vulgarity to Uriel's eyes.

Lucifer roared and stomped and threw balls and blazes of fire. Who could know how many angels had already fallen victim to his rampage?

Michael loomed over the angel soldiers as they were rushing in, towering on the ruins of the city wall, six-winged, framed by iridescent flames and blindingly bright, and pointed to the centre with her blade. The command was unmistakeable. Uriel felt her heart stumble as she looked up to her commander – her tongue went dry and her throat cramped. “Save whatever – and whoever – is worthy,” the Seraph instructed the soldiers, her voice harsh and sharp, “destroy or drive away what it is not.”

Leading them all, she threw herself into battle.

Uriel, imbued with her will to fight, her energy, a spark of her electrifying anger and total devotion, followed without hesitation. She couldn’t tell if the army was moving behind her, but as an officer, as one who had spent countless days on training them and teaching them discipline, courage, responsibility and strength, she hoped she could rely on them.

For the moment, however, there was nothing but the energy of combat, narrowing her field of vision, eagerness to serve and to cleanse, to keep those safe who were not powerful as she was, the tension in every footfall and every other movement of her meatsuit… the weight of the weapon in her hand.

Uriel’s ribcage and heart felt dark and tight, and blazingly bright at the same time.

“They are coming!” someone roared, “The angels are coming!”

Uriel’s teeth bared as she lost sight of Michael and instead a rebel stepped in her way, wielding a makeshift weapon, a big, rough hammer, with clear intention of using it, too. Uriel stopped in her tracks and measured the dissident from head to toe. She didn’t know him – he couldn’t be a soldier.

Pressing, nagging doubts tried to tear down her determination to fight and to win. There was no fairness to this, her conscience told her – she, a trained warrior, and high up in the hierarchy too, should in no way be forced to face up against a mere civilian. Civilians were to be protected, not to be combatted.

With a hiss and an astute, firm step forward, the Archangel tried to chase away the untrained angel, but he did not give an inch. No, he met her gaze, pushing back the fear he had – he simply had to feel, flinched a bit in a reflex reaction, but that was to be expected of someone who probably was as green as him, and seemed hell-bent on challenging her.

Was he in full possession of his senses?

The troops spread out behind Uriel, always in pairs or groups, she noticed tangentially. Good. They knew their goals, and they knew their purpose; it was beneficial for the Archangel and her concentration to know that they were able to handle themselves in battle.

Which made her return to the angel who still closed in on her, swinging his hammer. It was a shamefully fleeting and effortless task for her to avoid the attack while still trying to make him see the truth of the matter: she was many times his better. She would not enjoy it, but if she had to she would make him taste her anger.

If she had to she would…

In those moments Michael rose, shining like a jewel, like a second sun, not only far above every head, but also above every wall that was till halfway intact. Uriel felt her heart skip a moment and merely resume work with a flutter, a shiver, felt herself want to whisper her name in something like apprehension, but also like longing and dedication – strange, that – as Michael finally entered towering Lucifer’s field of vision, sword brandished, but still pointing toward the ground, justifiably non-threatening, for the moment. She could almost feel his hateful look on her own body…

Where did this dryness in Uriel’s mouth come from – the sweat on the palm of her hand that made her grasp the sword more vigorously? Why did her heart beat so fast and with such a tender, white pain?

Be careful, Michael, she thought – take care of yourself, whatever would we do without…

The civilian dared to attempt a lunge for Uriel’s neck and shoulder; she noticed it just in time to dodge, whirl around and push the unfortunate angel back with a swinging sword. The Archangel panted and felt she was respiring electricity; little jolts of lightning all through her body. Suddenly, the prospect of fighting, fighting whoever would present themselves as an opponent, did not seem so grave anymore. The sight of Michael, her voice in the back of her head, the mere anticipation of her pride and appreciation gave Uriel courage and confidence.

He had allied with the rebels; it was that easy. He had allied with the rebels and was on this battlefield, working with them to lay what everyone had worked hard to build up to waste; Uriel was obliged to battle him. She had tried her best to defuse the situation and scare him away; it had not worked. He had persisted. He would get his battle. It was that simple.

He was with the traitors.

The traitors would pay.

It was that simple.

The hilt was heavy, meaningful in her hand… Uriel hungrily awaited the heat of battle.

Despite his first defeats and Uriel’s ongoing, unspoken warnings, the unfortunate amateur could not be persuaded to back down from this clearly hopeless duel. Might that be at all related to the three other presences that were rapidly nearing, seeming to want to encircle the Archangel?

Now it was over. The four rebels – nameless, faceless, without attributes in Uriel’s perception that only knew the rapture of war, the rapture of the light, in these moments – had sealed their own fate. The whirlpool they formed with their hostile auras and uncoordinated, clumsy, but still powerful moves and attacks addressed everything that Uriel was deep down at her core, grabbed her by her every need to preserve, to protect and to support, and mercilessly dragged her down.

She saw Michael’s face in her mind’s eye as she gave up, let the current catch and drag her into the deep. Michael’s otherwise mild and expressionless, now raging face. She owed her, the Almighty, and not least of all Heaven per se, to put everything and more into this battle. It was up to her now – to her as well as to Michael and every other angel on the field.

In a quick turn around her own axis she let the blade rush through the air in front of the four attackers, unsure whether she had wounded one, and finally fixed the one in front of her with her gaze as well as her sword tip, ready to stab. She would not be the one to make the first move – not against angels who held a weapon the first day in their never-ending existences. But as soon as one of them made their move – as soon as she was attacked – they should not expect any lenience.

Heavenly fire, she prayed, seize me, make me burn, make me shine from the inside out as my commander does.

Heavenly fire… help me protect who deserves protection.

Michael! You be my battle cry.

The rebel fearlessly attacked Uriel again, as did his colleagues from the side, and the Archangel surprised him by rolling past him instead of jumping back. She needed space. This was the reason why she mostly chose to fight with a spear – but this once there had been no time to choose a favourite weapon, and so she had taken what had been most ultimately available.

She got back on her feet effortlessly and got the first rebel onto their back not with her sword, but with a punch; he did her the favour of tearing another dissident down to the ground with them so her opponents’ numbers were halved in one fell swoop. Do yourself a favour, Uriel thought feverishly, and stay down; I will not need to pay any more attention to you when you’re down and disarmed and harmless, and I assure you: you do not want my attention.

Two down… the two still standing, unwavering and determined, tackled her anew.

Uriel wheezed – but she had stopped her hemming and hawing. This was what she had been created for; this was purpose and destiny, and more, it made her nerves tickle. Had she ever felt so good? The Archangel doubted it.

The rebels let a hail of blows rain down on her; the Archangel blocked and avoided them instinctively, without a second’s thought. It was as if her body reacted wholly on reflex.

The attackers’ faces were pinched, but there was nothing they could do to breach the Archangel’s defence or circumvent her agility. She was both too strong and too fast for them. Uriel was superior to both – would have been much superior to all four. She didn’t have to think about how it had happened, it was a mere matter of course, as the two adversaries finally were discorporated, crumbling and withering away. Catching her breath, Uriel watched as the bodiless souls of her mismatched enemies finally turned and ran – you should have done that earlier, she thought. What did you think to attack a trained soldier if you are merely a builder, or an advisor, or maybe a guardian?

Her blade was still immaculate…

Two made harmless… how many more might be around and endangering innocent angels?

Uriel left the vanquished where they had dropped to the ground and, under groans, slowly regained their footing, and hurried on in the direction out of which she heard the most commotion. Michael’s heavenly light, the second sun, flowed around her, not letting her forget why she was here.

The deputy raised her head while marching and bathed her features in the light Archangel Michael emitted, warm and soothing and comforting, and sweet affection flooded every nerve in her. Of course she was in this inferno for everything that lived and worked in Heaven – but she only comprehended in this very moment that she was there especially for Michael, that thinking Michael’s name and tracing Michael’s face in her mind gave her odd sensations of being stricken, utterly and disconcertingly but also endearingly stricken, that she would give her life for noble, venerable Archangel Michael.

This was… all too personal.

The commander hovered high above them, exchanging blunt but quick strokes with Lucifer. Diplomacy didn’t seem to have worked, and now they were fighting it out… Nobody seemed to have the upper hand, yet there was no uncertainty for Uriel who would be victorious.

As you will… so will I, she made a silent promise to her commander, feeling humbled down to her heart which seemed utterly small in her throat at the moment. I am doing the right thing – this awareness seized her and pushed her forward, upward, on and on. I do the right thing, the uplifting thing, the holy thing. I fight for you, for us, and I will not be subdued.

For us. Why did they suddenly seem so meaningful, these words?

Uriel didn’t find the time to ponder this any longer; an equally matched opponent approached. Rahab, a member of the choir of Dominions who had earned even Michael’s respect, armed with an already rather ragged trident. Uriel and Rahab knew each other well, had been trained side by side by the noble commander, in fact, though they had never been close; Uriel had never had the impression that Rahab had entertained any respect for, nor interest in her, though she had always tried her best to treat her with humility and friendliness.

There was no banter with Rahab; no threats and no tries to intimidate one another. Just a lightning-quick, frenzied attack without any hesitation or reservation, a furious scream, an unconstrained leap back into the downward spiral.

Fighting Rahab wasn’t just sweat, blood, and pain; fighting Rahab was also intoxication and fulfilment and letting go, was song and outcry. It was cold storm and hot turmoil. Fighting Rahab was being thrown back to the primal, the deeply buried, archaic instincts that were always there, were unpredictable, but would always save one’s skin if they were invoked. Uriel breathed fate and power with every step and jump, with every gasp of hers as well as Rahab’s, with the ache in her muscles and sinews, with every opened wound and the taste of blood, with every clash of weapons and every look into the glowing coals that were Rahab’s eyes.

It was… an art form. Poetry!

The rest of existence sank into blackness and insignificance while the Archangel and the fallen duelled. From the outside it might have made the impression as if the two of them were one single being, messily divided in uneven halves, and trying clumsily to form an equally uneven whole again. Rahab used her trident against Uriel’s short blade, fists and feet flew, and Uriel did not think ill of herself for occasionally using celestial magic against the adversary after finding out that it hurt her or trying to grasp her long, swinging braid. She could imagine that Rahab would cut that one off after this struggle, no matter how proud of it she was…

In the middle of this struggle, a trumpeting, deep, booming cry of pain rang out; Rahab froze and Uriel whirled around.

Michael ascended in front of her tumbling-down enemy, the paralyzed, bleeding Lucifer – victorious, with imposing wing beats. Uriel felt her whole soul want to overflow – overflow with the joy of victory, yes, but also overflow with the joy of the knowledge that Michael would live.

But that only for a second – then she remembered that she was still in a battle. “This is not over,” Rahab hissed through clenched teeth as the Archangel, preparing to continue their brawl, turned back to her – yet the rebel left her battle post and sped off in the direction in which she must suspect her defeated leader.

Uriel let her get away – utterly different things held her consciousness in their grip. Michael, she thought with icy cold hesitation, with dark, pounding clarity, starting to spurt to the place her commander was floating down to. In these moments, as she followed her superior’s descent with her glance and thoughts, an idea, a notion had budded in the back of Uriel’s mind: the notion that Michael, strong and resilient and capable as she may ever be, must need her now.

This assumption didn’t let up as she walked, then started to run. Michael needs me. Michael needs me. Michael needs me.

Michael shouldn’t need me. But she does. I should be the one to need her – and I am – but this time…

This time…

Uriel’s inner censor stopped the thought from coming to its final form. It was not something for her to think. Not yet. And she saw that this ‘not yet’ should disconcert her – but it didn’t. It felt warm.

Uriel arrived in the precise moment the Seraph touched the ground, kneeling in the middle of a sooty crater, the six wings stretched above her and her eyes sightlessly opaque. Uriel gasped and only barely prevented herself from touching her hand to her relentlessly pounding heart. Her relief was palpable. Oh she was alive! She was alright. Uriel felt herself take a deep, reassuring breath, called her commander by her name, fought away the shaky, nervous impulse to touch her.

No limbs lost, Uriel saw as she descended into the crater in which Michael slowly got to her feet, hardly any visible wounds, the commander was fully focused and yet utterly absent-minded: Michael didn’t seem to hear or see Uriel’s approach. She was a little short of breath, her white robe had scorch marks on its front, blood dripped from the corner of her mouth… her eyes were scanning the environment, her sword and poise still prepared for battle. But she had won her battle and with it the whole war… how was it that she did not calm down?

Uriel stumbled a bit as she ran over to her commander, but her happiness made her overlook it. “It is over!” she cried as she felt herself within earshot, “Lucifer is defeated, the others are on retreat. We have to assess the damage…“

Michael rounded Uriel without a sign she had even noticed her.

Uriel, however, did not simply let herself be pushed aside. She grabbed Michael’s shoulders and jerked her around, an inquiry into her well-being on her lips, sparkles and crackling of pure heart’s devotion in her consciousness, but Michael lashed out at her.

Uriel avoided the blow, staring at Michael in shock, but as the commander pushed past her, her unwavering attention fixed on the retreating demons, she understood.

Michael hadn’t used her sword.

The attack hadn’t meant ‘die’… just ‘out of my way.’

Michael seemed hell-bent on pursuing the retreating fallen. But to what end?

Uriel decided to restrain her commander – just this once, because it was the right thing to do – tightened her grip, intercepted her next blow, wrestled with her.

Michael… needed her right now.

Oh this unbidden tenderness in her every nerve…

Uriel was immersed in unknown – uncomfortable emotions. Her heart was pounding, and her whole meatsuit-body seemed to be pounding along with it. Sometimes Uriel was embittered at how fragile and easily broken those meatsuits were; Michael accepted them more readily, mostly because Michael probably realized they had to just put up with them, and not fighting destiny made fulfilling one’s purpose so much easier. Her lips were dry, and in her throat, a laugh and a sob fought for their right to be uttered. Her head hurt, and her hands detested the obligation to wrestle with Michael, would much rather reassure and caress her. There was admiration and tenderness, the need to look up to her superior, acknowledge her as more powerful, and the knowledge that her well-being was now up to her.

Michael. Archangel Michael of the Seraphim needed her, Archangel Uriel of the Thrones.

And she will continue needing me, something in the back of Uriel’s head sang. For company. For listening. For support. For reassurance. For confiding in…

Uriel pushed it back and decided she would deal with this sometime later.

Her fingers reinforced their grip at Michael’s shoulders.

Her gaze was fixed on her limp, lifeless face and eyes that might as well belong to a statue. Look at me, she implored. Know that you are among friends. Wake up – we are safe. You can now be conscious again, you can be Michael the angel again, no need to be Michael the fighter anymore.

Uriel herself did not know why she was thinking this – where it came from, what it meant. Her own head, her own thoughts were a riddle to her.

Unexpectedly the Seraph’s resistance weakened, she lowered her head – no, let it fall like a puppet’s, the strings having been severed. Panic made every fibre in Uriel’s flesh cry out.

Everything about Uriel seemed to dry up at once; hope and peace of mind left her, there was a disgusting, metallic taste on her tongue, and she wanted to scream. To shake Michael and beg her to come back again. Her legs went weak, her knees soft and wobbly. This fear that makes everything tremble… 

Was this all over now? Had they driven away Lucifer in an attempt to regain peace and serenity just to pay with Michael’s existence?

Impossible. They couldn’t have lost Michael! How should they ever, who should…?

“Uriel…”

The commander looked up again, lifted her head fully out of her own strength – her irises and pupils had reappeared; she looked disoriented, confused, but hadn’t passed, thank goodness! There still was life, a spark inside this meatsuit! Uriel, feeling like she had just been released from heavy chains, knew she should let go of Michael at once, step back and take demure bearing, with her being a superior officer and nobody being allowed to touch anyone else without them explicitly permitting it, but rather felt, shamefully, that she resisted with utter effort and self-constraint the impulse to, conversely, press her against her chest in a ruthless hug. Weeping…

“What happened to me? What… did I do?”

In the face of the spark of life in Michael’s eyes, Heaven’s victory lost all meaning, at least to the one angel holding her this moment. Uriel might rejoice.

And wasn’t this explosion of happiness something to be ashamed of?


End file.
